007: Adventures in South America
by Half Mart
Summary: The story has been rewritten. Andres, an Irish revoulutionary, plans to hold the major cities in the world hostage by threating to unleash a poisonous gas, unless certain govermnets disband their armies, and give him their nukes.
1. The Encounter

Secret agent James Bond slipped noiselessly from behind one stone to another, always staying in the shadows. The full moon shone down on the ancient, weathered, and long deserted buildings of Manchu Picchu, bathing them in the moonlight. Ahead in the distance, next to an old fairway stood three men, dressed in black. They blended in with the night's shadows. Bond could just make out the bulge of automatic weapons under their coats. Drawing his trademark Walter PPK-7 from his pocket he screwed on the silencer. The British government was after the three men for assassinating the late British ambassador to Peru. Grimacing, Bond remembered the long, hot trek through the humid rainforest he had made following those three. A fourth man seemed to materialize out of the shadows. The fourth man was slightly shorter then the rest. Sliding closer, Bond unhooked a small hand- held radar dish. Fastening a small earplug into his ear, he twiddled the knob on the handle of the dish. Wonderful! It was if he was standing right next to the men. He mentally reminded himself to thank Q for it when he got back. "The poison worked wonderfully. Just as you said it would. The chamber pierced the skin, and unleashed the poison, setting of the deadly heart attack perfectly," said Pau.  
"You fool!" replied the fourth man. "MI-6 knows it was murder, even if the public does not. Their agent, 007, was sighted in Lima last week."  
"He is no concern of ours. Now where is our money?" asked Pau, who appeared to have appointed himself spokesperson of the three.  
"I will make him your concern. Here is all your money," replied the fourth man, tossing the other three a briefcase. "Don't worry, all fifty thousand dollars, in unmarked bills is there. Now, I have one more job for you three. I need 007 removed, permanently." The words sent a shudder up James' spine. "Here is more of the poison," continued the fourth man, drawing a vial from his pocket. "I will pay one hundred thousand for his removal." The thought of such wealth was staggering to the three men, and Jules could see he had them hooked. "My guides will show you down," said Jules, motioning into the shadows. "Where are my guides," he cried out when none appeared. "Guards! Guards! Sound in!" he ordered into a walkie-talkie. He was answered only by static. "James Bond must, be here! Now is your chance to earn your money, hunt him down!" he cried. Taking out their pistols, the three assassins spread out, combing the area for James. James waited until one of them was almost on top him, then he sprang out from where he was crouched behind a stone.  
  
Pau blinked in surprise as the fair skinned English man stood up from behind a stone, his Walter PPK-7 already in his hand. This man was like a ghost, suddenly rising from a graveyard. Pau's hand instinctively went to his pistol inside his jacket, but he knew it was hopeless. You can't out draw a man who already has a gun on you. Pau didn't hear the shot, but he felt himself falling. He didn't feel any pain, he suddenly felt very, very, cold. Then everything went dark. The other two assassins whirled about, heading toward the spot of the disturbance. James lined up the pistol sights, the moment they were lined up with the first man he pressed the trigger. The bullet passed through the man's jaw, ending his life before he could even register the fact that James had fired. The man had a family, and a life, but at the moment James felt no compassion for this man who had so often ended other human lives merely for money. Adrenaline was pumping through James's body, in one fluid motion James grabbed the pistol butt in two hands and faced the third assassin who was running over to Pau's body. James, the muscles in his arms and hands had long been trained to do it, fired three shots and completed the Palmer Pattern. One shot to the head then two to the chest exactly an inch apart. The third man ran forward one more step after the bullet passed through his head but then was hit square in the chest by two more slugs. They knocked him back a foot and he fell to the ground, the first shot alone was fatal. Jules fumbled for his pistol but it was scornfully kicked aside by Bond. He struggled for a moment but James's punch instantly erased all thoughts of escaping, or of doing anything at all for that matter. 


	2. chp 2

The big, lumbering, 1970's vintage Boeing 747 landed with a jolt at Liverpool International. The jolt woke up Jules who was sitting in the forward compartment in a cramped window seat next to Bond and another MI-5 operative. His hands were handcuffed to the seat in front of him, as were his legs. His clothes were damp and soggy, they still stank of rotting, forest vegetation. The sudden events of last night had worn him out completely. Still he new he would probably crack under interrogation early on and if that happened the boss would not hesitate to remove him. He knew he must escape before they could interrogate him, but how?.  
Bond had taken him back to Lima from which they had flown to Miami and were now touching down in Britain. They had crossed the entire Atlantic in twelve hours and the jet lag was enormous. Bond and the other agent waited until all the tourists filed out,(British airways had always been on cordial terms with MI-5), then they unchained his feet and placed Jules in between them. They escorted him down a series of back corridors that were empty. He was sweaty and his thoughts kept running together, but he had to concentrate. So far he had seen no one else besides the flight steward since they had departed the plane. So losing himself in the crowd would be next to impossible. He would just have to wait a little bit longer.  
The three men stepped out a delivery entrance guarded by a policeman who had been told to let them pass, and into the parking lot. This was the chance Jules had been waiting for. Jules stumbled and pretended to trip and then swung out his left foot, sweeping the MI-5 operative off his feet while the operative was blinking, adjusting his eyes to the bright mid- morning sunlight. His put both of his hands together and slammed them down, right below the operative's skull, hitting his nerves system and knocking him out cold. He grabbed the 45.caliber Beratta service pistol the man had half drawn from his shoulder holster.  
  
Bond felt Jules stumble and brush against his leg. The next millisecond and the rookie, Agent Towler, was face down on the hot pavement, blood seeping from a broken nose. Damn, the man was fast. Jules withdrew the Beratta, and then Bond grabbed the gun and began putting pressure on Jules' fingers. It was either let go or lose a finger, Jules let go. Bond picked up the pistol as the police driver ran over with his gun out. "You're a little late pal, don't you think?" asked Bond.  
"Better late then never Mr. Bond," he said, putting away his gun. "I'm officer Kengal, sir. I've got orders to take over the prisoner," from here he said. "Your due in for a debriefing tomorrow," he continued, helping Bond to secure Jules in the back of the government car.  
"That's the best news I've heard today Kengal. Thank you. An entire day off, I suppose they think I hate vacations. Tell Twoler he did okay for his mission but he needs to be careful, when he wakes up." Bond took a cab to a parking garage where he had left his Lotus Esprint. He had a long drive to London, which was exactly what he wanted. A long drive to collect his thoughts and review the mission. It had gone well except the last incident had bothered him. He had done that trick a thousand times before himself. He should have recognized it at once, but he reasoned, the man was after all a professional. Still, Bond liked knowing he was one of the best, if not the best, in his profession. When something like that happened he forced himself to work harder, because mistakes in his profession cost lives.  
  
Jules was dragged out of the car before he could gather his surroundings, they threw him into a white room, a mirror bordered one side. The only other feature was a chair and desk in the center of the room. The door opened again and a young man stepped forward. He wore civilian clothes and glasses, his accent was that of Northern England.  
"Mr. Jules, we would like your cooperation. Now, I am just going to ask you some questions. Let us start off with some basics, where were you born?," he asked, his voice sounded calm and trusting. I won't speak, thought Jules.  
No answer.  
"When were you born?"  
No answer.  
"What was your objective in Peru?"  
No answer.  
"What did you use to kill the British ambassador?"  
No answer.  
"Why did you kill the British ambassador? If you don't help me, then I'm afraid I can't help you Jules. I want to help you Jules, I'm on your side."  
No answer.  
"Well, Jules, I've tried to help you." He nodded and another man stepped in, dressed in a lab coat. He opened what looked like a cigar car and pulled out a long need. It's point gleamed in the light. It was the last thing Jules remembered.  
Jules woke up and looked around. Children were playing ball nearby and he was sitting in a park under a oak tree in his hometown of Salvador. There next to him laid his Anna. The woman he had loved passionately for fifteen years, before cancer had withered away her body. They took a walk through the park, following the paths he had known since his childhood.  
"Jules," she asked, "Where have you been?"  
Jules was about to answer but then he hesitated. Wasn't there a reason why he had not wanted to answer? But he couldn't think well, and besides that sweet, liquid voice would never lie to him. It was after all his Anna. But when he hesitated her skin suddenly turned pale and her hair began to fall out, just like it had during her last few days before cancer claimed her.  
"In Peru," he answered. Suddenly she was fine again, but Jules did not notice. All that mattered to him was that his Anna was safe again.  
"What did you do there?"  
"I killed the British ambassador."  
"Why?"  
"He was trying to get rights for a British lumber company to chop a part of the forest."  
"That wasn't nice of him." She was totally on his side. "What was special about that part of the forest."  
"Those plants could be used to make a poison that causes heart attacks. A untraceable, hundred--percent lethal poison that could be released either in a chemical form, or like how we killed the ambassador, a dart coated with the stuff."  
"Really! Wow, that's pretty interesting. So what would you have used  
the poison for?" "The boss wanted to release it over several major  
cities unless the leaders of the seven most powerful countries in the  
world, U.S., U.K., France, Japan, India, Pakistan and Russia,  
released control of the countries and disbanded their military. Chaos  
would ensue but the boss would seize control of their nuclear  
arsenals, and hold the entire world at gunpoint. The entire world  
owned by one man. Can you imagine such power! The world will bend down  
to one man. Hahahaaaaa.  
"So who is the boss?"  
"The Irish King." 


	3. chp 3

The park disappeared, and so did Anna. His head began to swim. The light blinded him, adjusting his eyes he saw several faces loom up at him. There was a cold, frosty silence in the room. Jules's heart beat sounded extremely loud, he was wearing white cotton trousers, sweat droplets dripped down his face. Damn, they had drugged him and he had sung like a canary. But what hurt him most was that he had just lost Anna for the second time. The first man, the one with the Northern accent said, "Wakey, wakey Mr. Jules." His voice contained no life what so ever. It was ice cold. They all wanted to kill him. "Thank you for your cooperation with His Majesty. Your new residence is in the London Prison. Take him away chaps," he said to the other four men surrounding him." The entire group walked outside. One of them slipped to the side and whipped out a cell phone. He had a call to make.  
  
In a deserted building on the Irish coast, miles away from civilization, Andres picked up the phone.  
"Boss,"  
"Ya, Tap."  
"MI-5 got Jules, he just sang like a canary. He told everything he knew."  
"Gotcha Tap, you're getting a bonus for the call. How'd they get him?."  
"Bond was put on it. At the moment he's heading to London. Jules is also being transported there."  
"Adios." Ah, so that's how they got Jules.  
Andres' mother was from Peru but his father was an Irish terrorist of the ICRA. Andres' had inherited his mother's olive complexion. From his father he had inherited his father's uncontrollable temper and a position as boss of the ICRA terrorist cell, though he had inherited none of his father's ideas about a unified Ireland, separate from Great Britain. Andres thought his father's ideas were stupid but he had been a man and a fighter, a man who could pick off an enemy at five hundred yards and had taken out half of a British swat team before they got him.  
This Bond was well known to Andres. He was the one who had taken out most of Andres's men. Andres liked Bond, he was a survivor, a fighter, a professional at what he did. Too bad he had to keep getting in the way. He called in one of his security guards.  
"Lance, come in here."  
"Ya boss?" Lance was a broad shouldered man, German, and something like six foot three, two-fifty pounds of muscle. A Uzi was slung across his shoulder. Despite his slang and casual talk, Lance was an expert on modern warfare, including the latest technological weapons.  
"I need Bond removed. This is your personal mission. Set up your men at intervals between Liverpool and London to track his movement. You need to take two men with you, take the two new Americans on loan from Chicago, arm yourselves and take one of the credit cards to get two cars to form the hit squad. Also, send Tomas and one other with explosives, to London. The target is Jules, whom you know. He's talked. They are transporting him to the London Federal Prison by truck convoy. Take out the convoy, and then tell them to bring him to me."  
"Yes, boss." Andres leaned back to wait until the first reports came in. He would be the man who took down James Bond, a legend in the criminal underworld. 


	4. chp 4

Bond stirred his martini ideally with a plastic spoon. The bar around him was deserted except for a few locals in the far corner betting on soccer match. The bar tender kept shooting the strange man in front of him side looks. Bond took the hint and sighing he stood up and pushed the remains of rather expensive, though disgusting dinner to the bartender and left a few coins on the table. The service after all had been very good. He was wearing a black shirt and lightweight nondescript khaki trousers. The cool night breeze felt good and refreshing on his face, after the smoky haze in the bar. James felt just as at home in the night as he was in the day, his keen eyes picked up and analyzed everything, thanks to long and habitual surveillance training.  
Inside the bar, one of the locals watching the soccer match watched Bond leave. It was lucky he had spotted him. He had just been going for a beer. There would be a reward for this. He grabbed the nearby pay phone. He suddenly needed to make a call.  
The streets were pretty quiet though there was still some traffic on the road. Music and laughter spilled out from the nearby stores onto the sidewalk. This was a rather rich neighborhood. Slipping into the leather interior of his customized Lotus Esprint, Bond gunned the engine and did a backwards U-turn, accompanied by horns from behind. Bond grinned wickedly, he felt like blowing of some steam. The journey back to England had been uneventful; though tiring and he was due to report to M in the morning. Bond glanced in the rearview mirror and his eyes picked up a something in the traffic. His eyes focused in on the car's headlights in the mirror and the car suddenly darted behind a truck when Bond glanced over. That was odd thought Bond, but he dismissed it from his mind and concentrated on the heavy traffic. That would be a hell of a way to die for a secret agent thought Bond dryly. Killed in a car crash. The traffic thinned out as he left the small town. The road up ahead was straight and narrow, rows of long waving grass bordering each side. The car could not easily miss Bond. An indiscreet car, painted black with silver chrome and tainted windows, shoved into him. The car, going in the opposite direction, suddenly veered in front of Bond and crashed into the hood of the Lotus Esprint. Bond had long ago, slightly illegally, customized his car with a reinforced bumper in the front; kevlar coated tires and reinforced Platon windows that prevented them from cracking and shattering. Bond very much doubted that anything short of an anti-tank missile would have any serious affect upon the car. All the same, Bond was still thrown about inside the car. A similar black car that had evidently been trailing Bond pulled up beside the Lotus Esprint. Something near panic was rising in Bond, but he forced himself to remain calm. His mind began to whirl and tick like a super computer, analyzing everything. The drivers were used to driving on the right side. American maybe? What enemies did he have in America? The drivers were professionals, no doubt about that, and the cars. While not very noticeable, they where not the cheapest thing around. These hit men obviously had some funding. All this passed through his mind in seconds. Then Bond saw the window of the second car being rolled down. Bond was a professional and he knew what that meant. He threw the car into reverse, just as the German Mk-50 sub-machine gun poked through the window. The gun fired short controlled three shot bursts. Not blazing away and wasting ammo like an amateur would have done, but the shots simply pocked-marked the gravel where Bond had been a split second before. He turned around, doing a backward U-turn, heading back the way he'd just came. The other two cars sped after him. James gunned the engine some more, and felt the car come alive with the increase of speed. The engine began to hum as the speed picked up. James looked back, and saw the lead car spray a bust into the rear window. Thankfully it held. After years of surveillance training he automatically kept track of his route. It was a common rookie mistake to be so concentrated on tailing an enemy that you got lost in the city and forgot the way back to base. A dangerous mistake, especially in a hostile neighborhood. He knew the turn was just up here. Turning onto an abandoned piece of highway James watched the speed indicator rise up ninety, then ninety-five, then a hundred, then one-ten. Suddenly a warning sign appeared in front of him. He smashed through it and wooden splinters went everywhere. Bond saw the five yard gap in the highway bridge come up in front of him. Bond carefully surveyed the gap. Yes, he was pretty sure he could make it. All his life he had been a gambler. This was nothing different, except the stakes were a little bit higher. Panic bubbled up inside of him. Bond pushed aside the panic beginning to edge into his thoughts. To late to panic now he told himself. He knew he had to remain professionally calm if he was going to pull it off. His hands calmly, but firmly held the steering wheel. Its either leap or be shot, lets do this he told himself. He slammed down the gas and suddenly the pavement ran out in front and for a few short seconds he was powerless to do anything, the car's momentum propelling him through the air. A thrill of exhilaration shot up his spine. He landed on the road, his back wheels spinning for an instant, trying to grab some traction. He made a hard turn to the left to avoid swerving off of the road. Behind him the first car crashed into the three-lane highway below. The second car stopped, a man got out and fired a few rounds at Bond, but Bond had decided to go on.  
Lance stopped firing after the Lotus Esprint had driven off. He got out his cellphone; the boss was not going to like this. 


	5. chp 5

A police van drove through the crowded and narrow streets of London, a police escort consisting of four motorcycle cops was right behind it and in front of it. The continuous whining of their sirens quickly became nauseous to Jules, who sat huddled in the back of the van, handcuffs latched to his wrists. He had a tremendous headache, it sounded like there was a drum being played at the same dull monotone. Pounding its way into his head. He tried to recall the events of yesterday. Yes, that was it. James Bond had been there. Then they had taken him to Liverpool and had..had drugged him. He tried to recall some more but gave up. He shivered and laid still, finding refuge in a deep sleep. The drum kept pounding, pounding, pounding, pounding.  
Lewis Lurmache had always wanted to be a cop like in all the action movies. But driving a van through London, day after day after day was not his idea of fun. Lewis thought he could have been a detective but those dreams were immediately squashed after he was assigned to the highway patrol. Were where all of the babes, the hot cars, in his life?  
He slowed the van to a stop when two Irish jaywalkers stepped off the curb into traffic. "Bloody Irish tourists," he muttered. One of them reached into the long trench coat he was carrying. "It looks like a ...suddenly the two cops in front went down, shot through the head. Lewis grabbed the nine-millimeter strapped to his waist. His day had just gotten a lot more interesting.  
Tomas Bain stepped off the curb into traffic, right in front of the cops. He watched the faces of the two cops turn from annoyance to horror as he started riddling their bodies with bullets from his suppressed Iranian model 22.caliber sub-machine gun. Then he turned his sub-machine gun loose on the two cops behind the van. Their heads disappeared in satisfying clouds of pink. Spectators around him began to shout and scream, but he ignored them. He reached into his chest pocket and brought out a grenade. Pulling the pin, he lobbed it into the cab of the truck. The truck's windows blew out, scattering glass along the road. His companion in arms ran around to the back of the truck and from his satchel he drew a small bomb and attached it to the back of the truck. The explosion lifted the truck a few inches into the air. The truck's doors were blown off their hinges. Tomas' partner bundled the unconscious form of Jules into the escape car that had been following the police van. Tomas followed his partner into the car, keeping his weapon trained on the shocked spectators across the street. The entire operation lasted less then three minutes.  
  
Alone on a small island off the coast of Ireland, was a small fisherman's hut. The winds swept over the rock, and the sea sought to wrench the hut out of the ground and carry it away. A small fishing vessel motored up along side the rock. The three men in the boat tossed their ropes to a shadowy figure dressed in a seagoing coat who quickly caught them and tied them around two wooden posts sunk deep in the earth.  
Inside Jules sat down in the chair indicated by Andres. Cigar smoke fouled the air, circling the ceiling.  
"Jules, you talked, you know we don't like that. Take, Babe Ruth, he was a great man but he was surrounded by a group of players that helped to make him as good as he was. It's called, teamwork. Teamwork. And when, you," the cigar pointed at Jules, "when you talk, you betray the team. You betray the family. How could you do this to us?"  
"Boss, I'm sorry. You know I can do better. I know I can do better. Or, I know. Let me out, I'll live in Canada or somewhere, where no one will ever find me again. You'll never hear my name again."  
"You want out, you got out, after all, we're all family." Almost lazily Andres reached into his pocket and drew out a pistol. The shot ended Jules's life and rearranged his face. Blood splattered onto the far wall, until it dripped down, forming a pool on the floor. Two guards came in, they took a look around, one of them almost fainted. They carried the body outside and tossed it into the ocean outside. Andres hated Jules, he had died pathetically, he wasn't a man. He was a coward. He wanted power, but more then that he wanted a challenge. 007 presented a challenge, but unfortunely 007 was dead. Oh well. His phone rang.  
"Lance?"  
"Yeah, boss. The mission got compromised. Bond is good. I mean real good. He took down the two Americans, looks like we owe Chicago some money."  
"Get back here Lance. We've missed this time, we won't miss again." Damn it. So Bond was still alive. Interesting. He could use a man of Bond's talents. Bond was a survivor, a fighter, just like him. 


	6. chp 6

Moneypenny glanced up as a gray hat landed softly on the strong oak hat rack. Her face broke into a grin as James, his bright blue eyes staring out from his high cheekbones and tanned skin entered. She noted a faint scar almost healed, and barely visible under the tan, on his left cheek. He sat down on a corner of her desk, and to her quiet delight he lent forward and kissed her.

"James", she said, feeling his cheek, "How'd you get that one."

"Hello Moneypenny, my dear. I met a fellow, name of Jules. He didn't really take a shine to mine, But you look wonderful Moneypenny, darling. Any idea what the old man wants?" He nodded toward the door.

"Actually James..."

"Old man indeed James. Moneypenny, I told you to send him in at once," said M over the intercom. James glanced in amusement at Moneypenny gave her a quick peck on the cheek and walked into M's study. M, his desk covered with papers stood up and offered his hand.

"That was good work 007, but I'm afraid to tell you," he said sitting back down. "Jules was rescued while being transported to London. As far as your assassin is concerned, he is Lance Huffener, a personal bodyguard and heard of security for one Andres Mcleanor."

"Can't say I've had the pleasure to meet the chap."

"I wouldn't think so. He is fairly new but already a respected boss in the criminal underworld. Apparently Jules was his lieutenant, handling matters in Peru. A lucky catch I must say. Jules has set up a factory in Peru making a poisonous nerve agent, we believe Andres plans on holding several major cities more or less hostage with this nerve agent in less his demands are met." An icy silence filled the room after these grim words.

"Now, 007 pay attention, Andres owns a safe house in Ireland from which he has communicating with Peru. 007, you are to infiltrate the safe house and find the location of the factory in Peru. There is a special forces team standing by to take out the factory."

"Sounds interesting."

"I should think you would enjoy it." M opened a manila dossier, and pulled out several 4 by 6 inch pictures. M handed them to James who in turn studied each face closely, noting any peculiar marks. The first was the picture of a beautiful woman; oval shaped eyes stared out seductively. "That," said M, noting his slightly longer examination of the photo, "is Alessia Gapito. Or 'Alice.' She is twenty-two, daughter of a Chicago mobster and we believe overseeing a firearms sale between Andres and her uncle Carl Gapito. She is staying at the safe house, a guest of Andres, and is not scheduled to return to the states for another two weeks. Next is Lance Huffener, who you've already been acquainted with, and this is Andres."

Bond examined the photo; Andres had a shock of black curly hair, his face turned away slightly to the left over his shoulder. He was in good shape, but not muscular, he did not look out of the ordinary, he could be the guy sitting next to you in the pub. "So this is Andres, eh." Said Bond more to himself then to M.

"Sorry it's not a good picture 007, but it was the best our field team could manage," said M. "Now, then, the safe house is a large manor along the Irish coast. In fact a part of it is right on the water. Since they already know you Bond, looks like you'll be going in by boat. The grounds are crawling with security and surrounded by a wall. Since we really have no information that could stand up in court that traces Jules to Andres. I don't think I have to remind you, if you die then, well we can't go in after you."

"Quite all right, I'll manage. I always do"

"Right, then I believe Q wishes to have a word with you. Good luck 007."

"Thank you sir," said James.

A man punched in a telephone number inside a phone booth. An electronic camera read his face. The door suddenly latched shut. Flames rained down from a liquid oxygen canister installed in the roof of the phone booth, the flames melted the man's plastic features in a tenth of a second, and then they simply obliterated him. James watched in amusement as Q then pulled out the dummy and sprayed it in foam.

"Well Q, what have you made this time," asked James, reaching out to touch the dummy that was now cooling.

"Don't touch it, oh, James, its you. For your information James, this is our latest anti-terrorist device. We're still testing it; it takes a picture of the man and then searches our database comparing it to the faces of known terrorists. Unfortunately it's still got a few bugs," said Q as the telephone booth's doors began to open and close randomly. "James follow me and don't touch anything," said Q. His graying hair was combed over his head, he was slightly built but no one in the building messed with Q, except Bond, and that was because Bond was one of Q's close friends.

Q turned to face Bond. Next to him on a table stood an array of gadgets. Behind him another group of scientists fired a laser at a stonewall. "In order for you to communicate with HQ, you'll be equipped with a wrist watch walkie-talkie, and night vision glasses."

"Really Q, I was expecting something more," said James examining his equipment.

"Oh, I don't think I'll disappoint you," said Q. "The best for last. Follow me." Q activated a remote and a wall pulled back. "This," said Q, grinning proudly at his creation, "is the Shark, aka. WLTV X-01, for water and land transportation vehicle."

"I wonder how you ever came up with such an original name," said Bond dryly, but his eyes gave him away as he examined the machine. It was a black Jaguar convertiable except it had no doors, and the undercarriage was covered with an extra layer of material so it could work underwater, and for added protection.

"The car is capable of two hundred and ten miles per hour and forty knots by water.It's equipped with two front mounted 22. caliber machine guns and, and this is a most ingenious device, on the back we have an oil slicker, you've used 'em before. Remember use it sparingly. There is also a 30.ml canon with ten shots to take out heavier targets."

Bond looked inside examing the interior. He thumbed a switch and a cannon shell shot out, the file cabinets at the end of the hallway blew up, charred paper fluttered to the ground. One or two lab technicians picked themselves off the floor."Very impressive Q, I most say," said Bond.

"Really James!" fumed Q. "Must you be such a nuiscence? I suppose you always are. Please try to return the car in one piece, the last one I loaned you is rusting in a Moscow junkyard in a few hundred pieces."

"I try my best, I always do."

"To try to destroy it, I know." replied Q.


End file.
